The Tragic Case of the Moebius Trip
by PauleenAnne
Summary: Hands were made to help others in need. They were made to work for one's dreams. They were made to hide our tears and fears. And, they were made to remain clean of blood, no matter whose it is. Trigger Warning


**The Tragic Case of the Moebius Trip  
Disclaimer: I don't own Ghost Hunt  
One shot**

 _Sometimes, people do things lined good with intentions that had an opposite effect of what it intended._

 _I thought I was reaching out a helping hand to him – thought I was helping him climb up from the dark pit he had fallen in. Then again, some people tend to hide the truth by acting fine. Waving their hands as they bid you goodbye, never divulging what they should._

 _Perhaps, it was too optimistic of me to think he was getting better in adjusting to his new life without the presence of an old, but hard to forget life primarily driven by the passion for art._

 _As usual, I was proven wrong._

 _Anyways, I write this to cope with the heavy emotions I feel weighing me down like shackles pulling me deep down under. This isn't intended to be a lesson learned from the situation I had for had some elements that seemed unreal that one could even say I was making things up. But, maybe, I can suggest you act upon what's needed to be done to save and pull at least one more pair of hands that was silently reaching out as their being slowly fell to into nothingness._

 _The main reason I'm even doing is that writing is all I can do as of the moment. This is, after all, a part of my life that I intend to keep in a way that it won't burn me out before nature decides so._

* * *

I never handled stress very well.

I didn't like the feeling of being clueless as to what I should be doing. I hated the constricting feeling it brought not unlike being crushed slowly by a massive wrestler. Or perhaps, it was the sense of losing grip on reality when the lights suddenly turned off, leaving me helpless upon the darkness' grasp.

Nervously, I sought my watch – a nervous habit I can't seem to stop doing – which read 6:35 with its hands flashing silver as lightning stroke, cleaving the darkened skies. Outside, it was dark with the rain that poured hard as if it tried to say that the results I'd be getting would also be going down the drain.

"With the consensus of the jurors," One of my jurors spoke, her voice contrastingly soft from deafening sound of the rain, "The results are – "

 _Boom!_

Thunder loudly crackled in two successions. Most of the audience shrieked in surprise and terror just in time to drown out my verdict. I held my breath in both dread and excitement. Was it supposed to be good, or bad? Did I pass, even if barely, or did I fail? My heart was punching and pounding so hard against my chest that I wondered if it was going to break free.

But the professors present inside the room broke into smiles, if not a bit amused at nature's timing. My professor in my Estimates class laughed in the obnoxious yet endearing way she always would, and blurted a breathless, "Congratulations, kiddo."

I dared not to breathe just yet. I wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. This situation wasn't supposed to be funny – I inwardly glared – because I was freaking out deep inside my mind so much that I was unconsciously flailing my arms up and down. In which they all laughed at how silly I was.

"You passed with flying colors!" My adviser grinned as he proudly tapped my stiff shoulder. As he stood beside me, he proceeded to announce the exact grade they gave me before he took my hand into a firm handshake.

A job well done…

The room was then engulfed in the sounds of claps and cheers. As I finally processed the information, my eyes couldn't help but glisten with tears. Somehow, it seemed brighter than it should. Or maybe some dust just got into my eye.

My breath finally escaped my mouth just for a moment of reprise before I bit my lower lip in an attempt to stop the ever-growing smile that would inevitably break into an unabashedly big and wide grin. I was so overwhelmed that I could only bow and utter small 'thank you's to everyone before hurriedly keeping my things in my bag. I'd be damned if I were to jump in joy like a kid in front of people – my professors no less.

When I got to my apartment, the sense of weariness and achievement washed over me, knocking me out by the time I lay on the soft comforts of my bed.

* * *

Afternoon came to me like morning should be. The sun was already shining brightly, undoubtedly scorching the people outside, and hurting my eyes with its intense rays. I wanted to sleep more, knowing that I only had night classes.

I forced my body to move and prepare for the day. Well, not before cooking myself a late brunch which only consisted of just a scrambled egg, hotdog and rice. It was my _I-don't-want-to-cook-something-complicated-but-I-want-something-delicious_ meal.

With steps lightly bouncing to the beat of _Bad Moon Rising_ , I passed through the school gates with a smile before taking out a tetra pack of coffee from my bag. No exams, no quizzes, no anything I should fret about today. I barely even stopped myself in saying that it was a good day. Because, from experience, I just might jinx myself if I did so.

But then again, it wouldn't matter if that was what was supposed to be, no?

Merely two hours passed after I got to school and attended class as usual when something unusual happened. I was sitting near the window with my Theology class going on, drawing random figures on my notebook. All of a sudden, a chill run down my spine freezing me on my spot, hands still on its way to draw another hand. It was similar to the chill that I only felt two times throughout the twenty-one years I've lived.

Something was wrong.

Terribly and horrifically wrong.

Ten minutes silently passed with the professor droning out something about the commandments before the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the class. We all stood up for the prayer, and it was unsurprisingly my turn wherein I only read out loud a poem I wrote a week before. I silently left neither saying goodbye nor informing my friends that I wasn't going to attend the next class.

I went down two flights of stairs all while taking out my phone, and dialed a number. A random person slightly bumped against my arm, but I couldn't care less.

 _Ring, Ring, Ri-_

"I'm sorry." A familiar voice spoke, but it wasn't the one I was expecting. Though her words already sent alarms ringing in my head, I carefully inquired as to what the problem was, rather than questioning why she was the one answering his phone. However, with the words that came to answer my question, I could only reply in silence.

The smell of burning candles and incense permeated the room full of people clad in black. Some went to pay their respects before going to their merry ways while some opted to stay for an hour or so before leaving too. For over five hours, I sat unmoving from the plastic chair they offered, my eyes staring unblinkingly at the gold-framed picture in front.

I wanted to reach out, but the hand that I was expecting was no longer there.

Night crawled too slow that I thought I was there for over a day or so. The small number of people that decided to stay for longer than most finally started to leave. Taking it as a cue, I stood to do the same with but a question in mind: _Why do they cry so?_

Only then did I feel something streaming down my face. I slowly touched my cheek before angrily wiping the salty streaks with the back of my hand.

 _"You look ugly when you cry, so stop it."_

* * *

Hot.

It was achingly hot the whole week after I got the news of his death. And contrary to what movies depict, the skies won't cry just because someone died. I squinted to watch how the sun shined too brightly amidst the sea of cloudless blue skies.

As sweat started to drip down my skin and soak my dark clothes, my sight began to fade out of focus. I blinked, trying to get some focus. My vision, which was already aided by my prescription glasses, blurred until dark spots began to dance slowly engulfing everything into dark oblivion.

But it was such a bright day.

I woke to the feeling of droplets of water gradually soaking me wet. Confused, I blearily opened my eyes and turned my head to look around. The stone sidewalks were lined with native Plumeria trees – really, they were called Kalachuchi here – swaying slightly with the breeze. I recognized it as the route I always took to go to my best friend's house. Ever so slowly, I hauled myself up before walking towards the nearest familiar place I could think of.

Why was I walking towards an empty house, anyway?

I quickly spotted the bright colored roof of the two-story residence I was looking for. It was odd how the lights were on inside the house when there wasn't supposed to be anybody. But I dismissed it as an unknown relative checking the house out before selling it.

Such a thought, no matter how fast it crossed my mind, made my chest feel heavy with weariness – of what, I didn't know.

Just like I didn't know how I was already on the doorstep knocking twice before I could stop myself. The reality of what I just did finally seemed to sink in. What was I supposed to do when faced with a distant relative of his? It may be a relative that may care no less of my best friend just as they were attempting to sell the house so full of memories (I was already assuming that they were going to sell the house).

"Oh! I never knew you were coming to visit, especially with the upcoming contest."

Maybe I was numbed by the cold from being thoroughly drenched by the rain because I couldn't find the voice to speak, and the power react. Or perhaps, my sleep deprived mind still had a hard time processing the situation, for all I could do was dumbly stare at the breathing – living – being that somehow seemed shorter, though a lot livelier than I remembered.

I couldn't even utter a single word or grunt before I was welcomed inside to dry myself.

In an almost robotically way, I changed and dried myself when offered a towel and some clothes. I saw him giving me weird looks due to my behavior, but I couldn't quite bring myself to care at the moment. Even so, he gave me a cup of hot tea in which my mind automatically supplied that it undoubtedly had a splash of milk. Touched by the gesture, I let my lips form into a small smile. He knew that it always helped calm me.

Silence surrounded us, but it was neither comfortable nor awkward – it just was. I knew he was waiting for me to say something – anything – but I merely continued to watch how the steam rose and vanished into nothing. Just only feeling the warmth emanating from the cup, not planning to drink it.

"Okay." Resignedly, he sighed as he uncrossed his arms, "I'll be just in my room."

When he turned to leave, my body started to act on its own again. I stood abruptly, my feet already up and running towards him not minding how the cup broke into pieces on the floor as it slipped from my hands. I grinned even if a bit strained, before tackling him into an embrace. He barely managed to keep us upright, but I continued to grip his back with shaking hands. This was the familiar back I used to see every time we go home together, just as it was the back I used to pat when I was trying to be encouraging and smack if I was trying to be teasing.

"Oi, what's the matter with you today?" He playfully chided even as he returned the awkwardly positioned hug. "It's as if I died yesterday or something."

My breath hitched for a beat too long.

"Don't say that…please."

The days started to blend and turn into weeks which then turned into months. I couldn't even remember why I was so weary and sad when I arrived at his house that one rainy night. Maybe stress caught up with those too many sleepless nights of trying to finish as much work as possible.

Art was our passion ever since we were just children. He had a talent for creating beautiful artworks that had been featured in many contests and magazines. While I, on the other hand, loved to play with words to create something that was meant to convey something new artfully. We worked our hands to write and draw manually, earning the old and familiar callouses our hands now sported. Together, we tried to enter new and different graphic novels. Sometimes they were accepted. Sometimes they were rejected too. However, nothing could deter us for as long as we were able to do and create such. Crying or sulking for a day or two sufficed just fine.

We were the inseparable duo.

Passionately, I spun tales of an unknown world of mystifying origins where people resided in ways that were unique though not exactly peaceful. After all, a story cannot be without a problem of which I created either through the black keys of my computer or the black ink of my pen.

And like a master, he painted and drew lines and curves that intricately form into something as magical as the music of a virtuoso could, with the vivid and harmoniously contrasting colors. It didn't matter if it was traditionally or digitally made for everything that his hands produced were masterpieces in their respects.

With regards to our skills and talents, I admit that he was significantly better than me.

A prodigy, they called him. A talented artist who'd already started creating what could be potential masterpieces at a young age. Techniques and styles came to him as if they were second nature. He had talent, yes, but he also worked hard every day, honing his skills to be able to achieve more than what he presently could.

He was the pride of his parents.

It was on that one humid summer of our fourth year in high school that I thought everything was lost for him.

On their way to the graduation ceremony, his family happily drove as they sang along with the radio. However, even under the bright guiding rays of the sun, a car suddenly swerved in their direction. The impact was terrible.

Accidents never came announced – no one could ever prepare anyone in encountering it, no matter how many times they experienced it.

The crash of broken glass and crushed metal always rang loud in his ears every single time he remembered. I saw how he gasped for air, panicking from a trauma he never asked. And as if in an action of seeking comfort, he reached for a pen and stood in front of an empty canvas. Silent and chilling minutes passed before he suddenly tore it into pieces by jamming the sharp point of the pen into the paper. The tearing of its fibers reverberated loudly inside the house which was accompanied by his cries that I could only be witness to.

People said I should give him some time alone, but was it the right thing to do?

It was on a cold, misty day of our second year in college that everything indeed fell into too small pieces that I took all my strength to at least catch some. It made me wonder if I did get anything at all.

Around half a year already passed since I went to visit his house drenched from the rain all confused and silent, thinking that he died when he did not. We were getting back on our usual track of creating more stories and artworks after a whole year of deliriousness and grief following the death of his parents. Deadlines, not only concerning our schooling as college students but also of our outside projects of continuing our graphic novel, were getting closer. We were both sleep deprived, tired and living off on coffee.

Creating art was more time consuming than writing words. So, on that rainy Tuesday afternoon, we were at his house working as usual. Everything was supposed to be normal, when, all of a sudden, he cried out in pain, and immediately crumpled onto the floor while clutching his wrist.

I never handled stress well, and the same goes for panic.

"What's wrong!?" I asked helplessly, but he only cried out agonizingly that it sent waves of anxiety unto my being. I did what I could and called an ambulance, trying hard to be strong for my best friend. When he finally stabilized and was ready to have visitors, I wished I never had to hear what he said.

Every single day, I came like clockwork. Always going in at the same time, and leaving by the end of the visiting hours. He never faced me in favor to pretend to be asleep even when I can see how erratic his breaths came. The silence was suffocating and only got more and more so as the days go by slowly.

I could only hide my face in the security of my trembling hands as salty tears silently fell from my tired eyes. Maybe I cried for my best friend who lost too much. Maybe I cried for myself who lost my only best friend. Or maybe I cried for the world who lost such a talented artist into the claws of pain and depression.

 _"I can no longer draw."_ His eyes were blank as he chuckled mirthlessly. _"I don't even know if I can still hold anything properly."_

I wanted to say, _'but you can still hold onto me,'_ however, that would've been too egoistic.

Gradually, he started to talk back to the countless one-sided conversations I began to initiate every time I visited him. That only encouraged me to look for more things to talk about no matter how insignificant it may be. And soon enough, I had him talking to me like before though it was clear that it still lacked his usual liveliness.

Each day, I brought him his favorite drink and some occasional fruit. Each day, I held his hand even just for a single moment before gently letting go and saying goodnight. Each day, I wrote of how our lives had been up to now rather than of the detailed imaginary worlds I have created. It was till then did I realize how important his existence was in my life.

"Don't forget to tell me what you think about it, okay?"

He smirked as he dismissively gestured his hand into shooing me before he shakily placed the papers on the table. Rehabilitation did what it could, and was only able to restore his capability to at least hold light things by himself, albeit shakily.

 _I still don't know if I'm doing the right thing._

We got back into our old routine once again, excluding the part where he still drew artworks which were slowly replaced by him reading my drafts, constructively – sometimes, he's just messing with me – providing criticism and advice.

Heaven knows why I stopped trying to draw anything for him.

I was, by no means, a bad artist concerning drawing. My level would be relatively around above average since I stopped drawing during grade school. It was, after all, during that time when I discovered how alluring the words those small and plain books contain.

By the time he got discharged from the hospital, I had given him a gift. I knew I had no tact sometimes, but that was just really too idiotic. His smile was strained when he kindly asked me to leave. It all finally clicked by the time the door closed behind me failing to stifle the sobs that tore from his throat completely.

I couldn't even apologize when he greeted me with a big smile the day after.

* * *

It was on a rainy and thunderous day that I felt as if I was looking through reality from a thin opaque screen that covered my eyes. But I shrugged it off as a result of another sleepless and stressful night, which became too much of a routine than it should've been.

I felt my heart quicken as the day became night with my hands cold from the sweat and anxiety. Or maybe that was because it was already my thesis presentation. I bravely caught every question thrown at me with a voice as confident-sounding as I could. I only hoped to be as convincing as possible.

Everyone except the professors left the room to give them time to discuss. My friends accompanied and assured me that everything was going to be alright as I leaned against a column, tired. I sought for my watch and found that it was already 6:25 in the evening.

"Thanks, guys."

Everything went well even with the thunder roaring and the wind howling all while they sent the rain pouring harshly onto the damp earth. I passed like I was sliding down the rainbow that came after, but in my case – with the rain towards the pot of gold that awaited me.

 _Only to have them turn black as charcoal on the next day, crumbling into ashes._

Still deliriously happy from yesterday's results, I hummed to AC/DC's Back in Black playing loudly through my earphones all while waltzing through the school grounds. There were no quizzes nor exams to be worried about; I thought as I sipped some coffee.

"It's such a good day…"

But even before I could sit down on the bench, I felt a sudden chill. Which somehow morphed into a burning cold sensation that wrapped around my being also chilling my blood cold.

Twice.

It was how many times I felt such, and they never ended well. First, was on my high school graduation ceremony that I felt restless the whole duration of it, endlessly wringing my hands in an attempt to kill the uneasiness. It was after my family ate our lunch that we were greeted with the news of the death of my best friend's parents. I could only hold onto his hand by the hospital bed as he slept through the sedatives running about his system.

The second one happened when I was merely watching some series that had already reached its climax when the sensation came like acid down my spine. I was momentarily dazed, remembering the dreadful feeling from my graduation and what it brought with it. My brother all but slammed open the doors to say that five of our relatives got in an accident.

Three of them died.

A week or so, all I did was tightly clutch my pillow under the sheets. No tears, no words, no anger nor grief. All I had was his presence and his hand that would sometimes brush my hair as he lulled me to another dreamless sleep.

"Third time's a charm," I whispered to myself. "That's the saying right?"

And as if in response, my phone started to ring from the pocket of my black hoodie. I immediately answered the call on the first ring, heart beating fast as I anticipated the bad news coming. It was a grim thought, but I usually assume worst case scenarios in almost everything.

"I'm sorry…" My mother's voice came, thick and hoarse from crying. Rarely did my mother apologize for anything, for it was always me apologizing instead. Carefully, I asked, "What's wrong?"

"He's dead…" She sniffled for a moment, "They said he…he killed himself this morning."

But that couldn't be so, right? I still haven't thanked him for helping me through my thesis that I just passed.

I still haven't apologized.

The smell of incense and burning candles suffused the room where people clad in white paid their respects and condolences to the unfeeling relatives that seemed to be present just because no one else was left. Most of the people who visited were merely there to pay respects to an artist they never really knew except through his works. While some were our schoolmates that seemed shocked to hear that the boy who always smiled and helped others killed himself.

I couldn't even believe it too. He was the one who unendingly encouraged me through the process and completion of the thesis book I had left on my desk. No, that's not right. He was the one who encouraged and held my hand through the claws of criticism and judgment of the society that liked to pretend they were always better than you.

Did my outstretched hand reach his through his hardships and trials?

* * *

 _His hands were meant to create meaningful and masterful pieces of art with delicate gentleness and sharp precision. They weren't meant to be soiled by blood, and most especially not his own._

 _I remembered how he was the first one to reach out to me when we were still children, his midnight blue eyes shining like it contained the beautiful galaxy in it. I couldn't help but reach back with my trembling hands, as he proudly proclaimed that my story wasn't 'trash'. He continued by saying that the others were just jealous of my capability to create such stories that they bullied me into thinking it to be true. He gently caressed my injured hands saying that they create such beautiful works of art and that I should take care of them._

 _In the end, he was the one that should've been following his advice. He, after all, was the one who didn't take care of his hands which created much more significant and beautiful works of art. His hands who helped me gain confidence to pursue my dream to write._

 _I never realized until it was too late that he never really recovered from the loss of his art. I was his best friend, and yet I just realized that maybe I was the one hurting him the most._

 _Every single time brought him my drafts; I never forgot to draw a small hand that formed a peace sign. It was our encouraging signatures that signified the 'V' from the word victory. I didn't realize how that small insignificant drawing – we even snickered at the corniness of it – turned into something else that's entirely painful._

 _On the days that I won some contest, I proudly went to him without considering how it must've hurt him seeing me win by myself when we usually win together._

 _One should never take the impact of a loss, be it a person, a passion or anything of import, lightly by thinking that time will heal it. Because sometimes, time worsens it._

 _Everything came falling into place when I stopped living life in a way a person should. I was merely existing in this world that slowly took away everything from him before taking him as well. And by taking him away, it also took a part of me away. But, for some reason, this feeling seemed years old rather than mere months. It felt like an old and familiar friend that continued to follow me where ever._

 _Anyway, I just hope that soon enough I'll be able to get over this…and maybe I'll be able to live again, but I'll never forget._

* * *

Rain started pouring down when I was aimlessly walking down the road which somehow ended up leading me to the empty house that became my second home. My wet light-colored clothes clung to my body which shivered from the passing gust of cold wind. To find shelter, I tried to open the door but was beat to it by someone from the inside.

The door opened to reveal the familiar and living figure of my best friend.

"Oh! You surprised me!"

No, he was the one that surprised _me._

* * *

 **I tried to experiment with a story containing no names, being completely ambiguous but clearly centric. Should I tell who's who? Oh well, I'll leave it to everyone's imagination.  
-PauleenAnne**


End file.
